


Tacet: Day

by Marguerite



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s03e22 Posse Comitatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-16
Updated: 2009-03-16
Packaged: 2019-05-30 17:11:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15101288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marguerite/pseuds/Marguerite
Summary: "He holds her hand while she reaches into the coffin to stroke the dead man's cheek. Toby is grounding her, connecting her to life."





	Tacet: Day

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

TACET III: DAY

Classification: Post-ep for "Posse Comitatus." Toby POV.  
Summary: "He holds her hand while she reaches into the coffin to stroke the dead man's cheek. Toby is grounding her, connecting her to life."

***  
Tacet III: Day  
***

CJ is sitting absolutely erect in the passenger seat, hands folded in her lap, unfocused eyes facing straight ahead. She's still wearing the charcoal-colored suit from this morning, when she gave her first press briefing after two days' absence. The unflattering hue had washed her out on television and here, in real life, it exaggerates the dark circles under her eyes and the hollows beneath her cheekbones. It makes her look skeletal.

Toby blinks the image away and looks back at the road.

Simon Donovan's funeral is being held in private and the actual burial will take place in Chicago tomorrow afternoon, CJ had told the reporters, her voice faltering on the word "burial." Then she had lied to them, saying she'd be attending the funeral along with members of the Secret Service so that any reporter heartless enough to try for a photo would be going in the wrong procession, the one to the memorial service being held in Baltimore, while she and Toby went to the real funeral in Alexandria. She remains unrepentant about her sin. Besides, it had been Toby's idea.

Toby is driving an unmarked black sedan the President ordered for him. He and CJ are to represent the White House on this sad occasion, something they could not do with any degree of solemnity in either his crochety Dart or her sporty Mustang. The White House they represent is far behind them, or at least the building itself is, but Toby still feels the heaviness of his position. His burden is not so much the title of Communications Director, because that's not his role today, but his unofficial designation as "the closest friend CJ has on the staff."

That's how Leo had phrased it yesterday in his office after Sam suggested that someone should accompany CJ to the funeral. I think it should be Toby, Leo had said, and told them why. And then he'd put on his glasses as a signal that he was done with them until the next meeting. Josh had looked relieved but slightly guilty. Sam, of course, had seemed depressed at not being chosen, so Toby had made sure to ask him for the most circuitous route possible, the one that would throw any straggling journalist off the trail. Besides, of all of them, Sam's the only one who really knows how to get from point A to point B without making three abortive tries at getting out of Dupont Circle.

Sam's directions have done the trick and they arrive at the church without having been followed. On any ordinary day, CJ would roll her eyes at Toby and call him a name if he opened her door and handed her out of the car, but today he knows that she will need his understated chivalry. Today he needs his hand tucked under her elbow as they make their way to one of the pale maple pews.

Private though the funeral is, the sanctuary is crowded and people have to squeeze together to make room for them. Some of them recognize CJ, nodding at her as she takes her seat. Toby has to sit very close, closer still when one more person joins their row. Toby's arm touches CJ's, joined from shoulder to elbow. CJ's hands are in her lap again, unmoving, the nails ragged and bitten down to the quick.

He looks around at the other mourners, then up at the altar. The casket is open. God, why do they do that? he wonders, repulsed at this final invasion of privacy. Mrs. Landingham's casket had remained closed, whether out of respect or because of her injuries, no one had mentioned. Today they are all going to see this waxwork version of Simon Donovan - an added stress he suspects CJ might not be able to endure.

The minister takes her place at the pulpit as Simon's family comes in. His mother walks slowly, holding on to the arm of her surviving son. There are also two daughters, their husbands, and several confused, red-eyed children dressed in stiff new black clothes and shiny black shoes. CJ had said their names at the briefing but now she's not putting faces to the names because she has her eyes closed. Perhaps she's praying, or perhaps she can't bear the sight of the survivors. She keeps her eyes closed during the entire service. From the opening words of the minister, through the eulogies by Simon's brother and his best friend, through the hymn about being God's servant, CJ sits with her eyelids pressed together as tightly as her pursed lips and trembling hands.

When it's time for them to rise and file past the coffin, she clutches Toby's arm and shakes her head. But they get swept up in the group and moments later they're standing close enough to be overwhelmed by the maudlin scent of funeral home flowers, forced to face the reality of Simon's closed eyes, his artificially tinted cheeks, his cold, still hands folded over his chest, over his heart, over the bullet holes and autopsy scars. Some of the mourners touch those hands, others lean over to kiss his forehead.

Toby bows his head, quelling the guilt he feels over the death of a man destined not to be his rival after all, thanks him for saving them that terrifying night at Rosslyn, thanks him for taking care of CJ. CJ shudders and leans back against Toby's chest. He holds her hand while she reaches into the coffin to stroke the dead man's cheek. Toby is grounding her, connecting her to life.

His greatest fear is that CJ will become like Josh, that she will decide that these losses are somehow her destiny, then make the subconscious decision never again to risk losing anyone dear to her. How else to explain Amy Gardiner, whom Josh enjoys but clearly does not love, other than to say that losing her wouldn't cripple him the way losing...the way another loss might? He grimaces and clutches CJ close to him in a fierce embrace. Come what may, he will never leave her, and please, God, let her understand that. She sighs, relaxes, lets him help her down the stairs.

The minister ushers the mourners toward a reception area so they will not have to watch the casket being closed and sealed. Simon's body will be transported to Chicago, where he'll be buried at the side of his father, also a law enforcement officer killed in the line of duty. At least CJ will be spared the awful sight of his coffin being lowered into the ground, spared the sound of earth hitting the lid and the cries of the children, who are already sobbing softly into their parents' shoulders. Toby holds CJ's arm fast as they go up to the family. The brother recognizes her and she shrinks away from him, whispering that she is so, so sorry. Her eyes are huge, dry but unspeakably sad.

It's not your fault, the brother says. He's as handsome as Simon but older, a little grayer, his eyes dulled with sorrow. We saw you on the news, he says, holding her hand between his. Simon would've liked what you said about him.

They don't mention that the words had been Sam's, written because he and Toby suspected that CJ might break down at the podium if she had to think on her feet. They offer their condolences again, bypassing the tea and sandwiches and photo albums of Simon's boyhood. Let's get out of here, CJ says without speaking by squeezing Toby's hand so hard that the knuckles rub together.

They leave through a side exit that doesn't lead to the parking lot. He doesn't want her to have to see the coffin again. CJ squints at the too-bright sun, looking offended at the beauty of the day. It should be raining, or foggy, or something gloomy. Toby wishes it had been raining, so CJ could have wetness on her cheeks and blame it on the weather, so she could release the dammed-up emotions she's held in check since he found her on the bench two days ago.

But the woman he helps into the car is Claudia Jean Cregg, Press Secretary to the President of the United States. Toby knows she is not just any woman, would know that even without the full name and the title and the dignity which she wraps around herself like armor. He closes her door and gets in on the driver's side, puts the keys into the ignition, and heads for home. They stop at a railroad crossing and he glances to his right.

CJ is sitting absolutely erect in the passenger seat, hands folded in her lap, unfocused eyes facing straight ahead.

***  
END  
***


End file.
